


Soft Spots

by JulianObviouslyLovesToad



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Abuse, Berkut is Unwell, Crying, Feeding, Fernand is Broken, M/M, Regret, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 15:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11084403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianObviouslyLovesToad/pseuds/JulianObviouslyLovesToad
Summary: Rudolf and Rinea were well known weaknesses of Berkut's. He hadn't expected Fernand to become another one of his soft spots.





	Soft Spots

**Author's Note:**

> I recently commented on someone else's work about how tastefully done theirs was, then I go and post trash. Figures. Ah, well. I'm a trashy guy.

Fernand was a gift, a true treasure if Berkut had ever seen one. Respectful, subservient and pretty, all dolled up in his overcoat and those _tight_ pants. With skin the color of fine china, too-soft hair that would never stay exactly the way he wanted it, and those cunning yet imploring hazel eyes, Fernand was a gift that Berkut unwrapped at his earliest convenience.

Beautiful Fernand was willing to do so many things to debase himself in private, so willing to prove his loyalty in any way Berkut would ask of him. The young prince had been pleased that he hadn't once had to raise his voice with Fernand. But, when Berkut tried to take things public, he found his fair-haired doll had a shred of dignity yet within him.

When asked to take a knee before him in the war room, Berkut's voice as smooth as honey in order to soothe his charge into a pliable state, Fernand hesitated. His fair haired gift had bowed deeply and begged forgiveness, his delicate cheekbones alight with a blush, and asked that they maintain themselves in public. In one of the rages he was growing more and more prone to, Berkut threw the book he'd been reading from. It knocked over a series of polished silver weapons, and Berkut barked for Fernand to retrieve his book. With a nod, Fernand turned to do so, freezing when Berkut ordered him on his knees.

The prince took to using the platinum blonde as furniture, using his back for a seat whenever he fancied, or resting his feet on his favorite foot stool at the end of a long day. When they were alone, he enjoyed watching his gift unwrap himself, then presenting his legs for Fernand to remove his greaves and boots and stockings. He would delight in the embarrassment writ on his charge's features, the rose coloring upon sculpted cheekbones, when bare feet would come to rest on a lightly sweating, silky smooth plane. Sipping his tea as his footstool flushed further, the delightful color spreading all the way down to his chest, Berkut considered sharing this with Rinea. He thought he like to see his future empress seated delicately on his favorite furniture, dolled up in her finest clothes and jewels while Fernand provided a stark, nude contrast, only a dainty lace doily protecting her expensive dress from the sweat of his back. It would be such a pretty picture that he thought briefly of taking up painting to capture the moment.

In the end, he decided that was one fantasy that would never see the light of day for many reasons. The first and foremost being that he didn't wish to put such a stain on the way his beloved viewed him, not to mention she was far too kind of a soul to enjoy something of the sort and would, Berkut assumed, treat Fernand more like a cherished pet than the beautiful furniture he was. However, he figured he could find some semblance of his fantasy in ushering in a maid to use Fernand as a ladder to reach the top of the bookshelf to dust. The way Fernand's teeth clenched in mortification, the way tears beaded on his delicate lashes when a tiny foot covered only by a soft soled suede shoe was placed on his back had Berkut unable to hide his grin.

The fact that Fernand's length strained against his stomach, so engorged that the swollen, blushed head bloomed past his foreskin, stretched the grin even wider. He thought he might accuse the platinum haired young man of being distracted from his duties by the maid just to see if he could make tears fall over those flushed cheeks.

As times grew rougher for the Rigelian forces, so did Berkut's treatment of Fernand. He took out frustrations on him that it would be improper to turn on Rinea, as they'd yet to marry. Not that he would have been as rough with her even softer, even paler near-translucent skin, but he claimed he had needs, citing his hot - nay, boiling - blood at defeat after defeat as he bent the pliant and decidedly male form over the end of his canopy bed.

He found he enjoyed himself more when Fernand cried, and it came as a bit of a shock. Usually it disgusted Berkut when men cried, made him uncomfortable or even caused his heart to ache when women shed tears. But seeing droplets leave paths over cheeks glowing coral, past pale, parted lips that gasped near-silently proved a strange sort of comfort, and as time went on Berkut found he would resort to nearly anything to see that beautiful vision.

One evening when the two had a moment alone, Berkut took a long look at Fernand who had his arms folded behind him and his head turned away. Though they were still in a somewhat public area, the main library, Berkut reached out to caress one of those delicate cheekbones he loved so much. The thought that he admitted to _loving_ even a body part of Fernand's struck him at the same time as the injury to his pride when the platinum blonde flinched away. When the paladin recovered, the two stared at each other for a long moment, terror writ on Fernand's features, shock on Berkut's. His subordinate immediately started to beg forgiveness, palms up in a placating gesture Berkut was especially fond of, but the prince merely turned and stormed off.

He figured he should have been delighted that Fernand was afraid of him, but he wasn't. When those hazel eyes had widened in fear he had _ached_ , almost as much as he had when he'd first met Rinea, when she lamented feeling unwelcome. He broke whatever he could get his hands on as he stomped to his room, taking a little comfort in the fact that Rinea wasn't around to see his behavior, rather she was at home with her family.

An hour later, there came a knock at his door. Berkut considered ignoring it, but a shout bubbled up in his throat before he could stop himself;

"Enter!" he barked. "Make your business quick."

"Forgive my intrusion, m'lord," Fernand stuttered. "I simply thought you could use something to eat." He sat a tray of some rice and chicken dish ringed by bowls of fruits and vegetables on an ornate table across from Berkut's bed and took a knee. He turned his head toward the floor.

The prince took a long look at the food and gave a sigh. He wanted to refuse it, he was in a mood to be difficult, but it looked good.

"I suppose I could eat," Berkut said, stepping over in front of Fernand. "Stay there," he ordered, pulling a chair over so that he could sit beside the kneeling paladin. The prince picked up his utensils and started to eat. As much as he wanted to scarf it down, full of emotions and a gnawing hunger that affected more than just his gut, he restrained himself.

After a few minutes, he pried one of the grapes in a fine china bowl from it's stem and held it down before Fernand's lips.

"M-m'lord?" the platinum blonde stuttered.

"Eat it," Berkut ordered.

"M'lord, I've no wish to take your food. If you're concerned over it's safety, I guarantee you-"

"Eat it," Berkut ordered again, reminding himself to keep his voice even.

"If it pleases m'lord," Fernand surrendered, accepting the small fruit between his lips. After he'd swallowed, he was presented with another and took it as well. Next he was shown a lump of sauced rice on two of Berkut's fingers and he licked them clean, not daring to look at the other. The dark haired man watched the little sharp tongue clean his fingers and fought back a shiver. He repeated the motions until Fernand had consumed almost a third of his meal, finishing the rest himself.

"Strip," Berkut ordered, standing and pouring himself a glass of wine. Mouthing the placating words, Fernand rid himself of his overcoat, his boots, his shirt and so on until he stood before the other in naught but his birthday suit. His desire was starting to fill, but he held his arms behind his back. He held his shoulders in that prideful way he'd been accustomed to standing before Berkut had broken him, but his gaze was elsewhere. "Here," Berkut said as he held the fragile glass to Fernand's lips.

The platinum blonde gave a little whimper, but sipped regardless, his shoulders hunching. Fernand closed his eyes.

"Good," Berkut said, taking the glass away. He reached up to wipe away a pearly sangria droplet from the other's thin lower lip. Fernand drew in a sharp breath, but did not flinch. "Lay on the bed," the prince whispered.

"Y-yes, m'lord," Fernand managed, though he sounded uncertain.

The paladin laid on his stomach with his hands at his sides, palms up where Berkut could see them in their nervously sweating glory. He kept his face and hair from Berkut's pillow, though he allowed his locks to splay over the sheets and cover his expression.

"Get comfortable," Berkut said, his voice wavering the slightest bit.

"My comfort should be of no consequence to my lord," Fernand sputtered through.

"Did I stutter, Fernand?" Berkut asked. When wide hazel eyes turned a scared yet curious glance his way, Berkut merely continued to sip his wine.

"Forgive me, m'lord," the platinum blonde said, turning himself to curl on his side. His confused desire rested against his thigh, quickly covered by Fernand's leanly muscled arm as he moved it to hook his hand behind the knee that was closest to the bed. He curled his other arm against his chest, his lashes fluttering as he stared off at the wall to the other side of the four poster. He still didn't allow his head to rest on Berkut's pillow.

The dark haired man felt a strange pang of guilt, watching Fernand make himself comfortable. He wondered if that was how the other slept, in awe of how vulnerable he looked. Finishing his drink, he sat the glass down. Carefully, despite how he longed to throw it, to hear it shatter. But he knew if he did, Fernand would jump, close himself off even more. That wasn't something Berkut wanted.

He'd spent so much time breaking the other down, teaching him to cry on command without much painful prompting. He'd wasted so many hours turning Fernand into his perfect little doll, a piece of soft, pliable furniture with a number of willing holes. He'd taken so much pleasure in all of it, watching Fernand's reactions; hearing the quiet gasps he tried to hide, licking away the tears the blonde didn't want his lord to see, punishing him for soiling his sheets when he'd actually enjoyed their coupling. Yet he ached in that moment, seeing the once prideful noble so truly broken.

With a sigh covered by the harsh way in which he sat, Berkut reached out to stroke Fernand's hair, receiving little more than a choked back whimper in return. He stroked the back of his finger along one porcelain cheek, remembering what it had looked like with a swelling hand print on it, with fat tears rolling over the welts.

He had long shed his armor, but still felt overdressed with his charge nude in his bed and leaned over to start unlacing his boots.

"Does m'lord desire I remove his boots for him?" Fernand asked. To his credit, he kept his voice even.

"No," was all Berkut said.

Silence stretched between them as the prince rid himself of his boots and stockings and set them all aside. He considered changing into sleeping clothes, but decided against it, sliding into bed behind Fernand as he was. The somewhat slighter body tensed, but allowed itself to be moved as it's master willed when Berkut wrapped an arm around him and pulled Fernand back until his rear pressed against his groin firmly. Berkut's chest rose and fell against a lightly perspiring back, his nose buried in silver hair that moved with his every breath.

When the dark haired man made no move to initiate any other action, Fernand managed a quiet, "m'lord?"

"Hush," was all Berkut said, breath ghosting Fernand's ear.

He closed his eyes and tried to push away the self-hate that soured his stomach, the thoughts of how he was undeserving of Rinea's kindness and love if he would do something like this to someone who was nearly her equal. He clenched his teeth against the thought that he may not become the ruler he'd been so certain he was fit to be if he couldn't stop losing, wondered if he would cause his citizens to break under pressure like he'd done with the soft skinned body in his arms.

Tears escaped lost looking hazel eyes as Berkut, perhaps possessed for a moment by Rinea's kindness he mused, pressed a careful kiss just behind the other's ear.

**Author's Note:**

> That didn't turn out as happy as I had originally intended. I apologize. 
> 
> I did give a pretty explicit description of Fernand's junk in there, so let me know if you think I should tick the rating up to explicit. Leave me any other thoughts you may have below.


End file.
